


Thrilling the Dark

by EnmityRedity



Category: Ai no Kusabi
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Swearing, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26792932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnmityRedity/pseuds/EnmityRedity
Summary: Iason didn't notice the wings at first. Riki always kept them hidden underneath his bomber jacket, somehow concealing the mess of feathers under tight leather—that was an impressive feat in it's own right—but as he stripped him bare that first time, the fiesty, ebony wings had easily become his favourite thing to look at (aside from the mongrel himself).
Relationships: Iason Mink/Riki
Kudos: 79





	Thrilling the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the novels (yet!) So forgive me if I have sinned.  
> Black wings instead of white because you can bet ur ass he'd have piss stains on the white ones ;) just to spite Iason
> 
> Rated M for swearing and sexual references.

Iason always liked his wings.

No matter how many times he had told Iason to stop touching, toying, and fondling them—since his pride wouldn't let him revel in the soft, silky hands caressing each and every feather—the blondie outright refused, ignoring both his pleas and insults. The worst part was that Iason had found that sweet spot underneath all the inky feathers, effectively keeping him quiet with the threat of those pale fingers cruelly tugging and pulling against the feathers biting into his flesh. The ring also did that and more, but he could tell that Iason liked the control he wielded with his mere fingertips, Riki's natural instincts had no choice but to surrender to whatever treatment the blondie felt like inflicting upon him.

He didn't think he could hate anyone more so than he did Iason. He hated the subtle upward tug of the blondies soft lips when he stilled beneath those daunting fingers, he hated the flickers of amusement dancing in those piercing blue eyes when his wings bowed to the heavenly touches, and perhaps worst of all, he hated the fact that he didn't want Iason to stop. It had been so long since someone touched his wings in the way that Iason did; being a human with wings spouting from his back wasn't exactly common, he used to think he was cursed, cursed that a mere human—a mongrel no less—bared wings as captivating as the night sky itself. But unlike the abyss that was the starry sky, people could reach out and touch him.

Him... but not him, his wings.

That's why he kept them tucked away, shrouded from prying eyes and minds, he despised being seen as nothing more than a rare specimen, nothing more than a phenomenon for people to stare at, rare and wrong at the same time.

Until that fateful day he met Iason. The blondie didn't like it when he purposely obscured his wings from sight, especially from the scrutinizing blue orbs that loved to watch him writhe. Iason had made it abundantly clear that he belonged to the blondie, that he had no power or right to cover up what belonged to the backbone of Tanagura—he was the aristocrats pet, the elites property, and Iason would do as he so pleased with him, regardless of how many times he had disobeyed the smug bastard or fought back with everything he had, defying the blondie at every turn.

He knew that freedom was a fleeting dream by now, no matter how much he wanted to go back to the slums, Iason wouldn't allow it. The ring sinking it's unyeilding teeth into his most sensitive area reminded him of that every waking second, along with the blondie who had put it there. The restrictions were suffocating, but that didn't stop him from fighting back whenever he could, even going as far as using his wings to try and evade capture when he saw an opportunity—he would be a fool to let a golden opportunity for escape slip past him.

His wings...

He remembers the first time he had struck the blondie with his wings in defence—the impact didn't even hurt either of them, it was more of a nudge than an actual attack. It didn't matter though, it never did. As soon as those vehement blue spheres locked onto his widened eyes, he knew he was—for lack of a better word—fucked. Suffice to say, he wasn't able to walk properly for a couple of days afterwards, but he didn't let that incident discourage him for long. All his life he had tried to take no notice of his wings, but for once he could actually use them to his advantage and try to break free from the control Iason had over him.

He couldn't believe how naive he was sometimes.

Of course his carelessly impulsive plan had failed—they always did—the blondie had stellar reflexes, paralleled only by the other blond-haired aristocrats; he couldn't make the idiotic mistake of underestimating Iason under any circumstances. He had learnt that the hard way, and for all his efforts the only thing he had to show for it was bruises (they were quite obviously hickies hiding under his skin, but he was still in denial) and a few sore asses (courtesy of the blonde devil).

The thought of his rear snapped him out of his reverie.

His ass was sore, though not for the usual reasons. He had been sat on the hard floor of Iason's apartment for the past half an hour. A single, slender chain connected his neck to the blondie's wrist, the collar wrapped snugly around his neck, not suffocating him, but whenever he moved his neck he could feel it hugging him tightly. The collar was cold, but had warmed up beneath his flesh. The thought made him scowl in frustration, he had been perched upon the floor like a dog for almost an hour now—he was bored, tired, and his ass and legs were starting to grow weary and numb. The bastard hadn't even given him a pillow, it's not like Iason didn't have any soft, plush squares of heaven to spare.

He looked longingly at the pillows mere meters from his touch, before focusing his burning gaze on the blondie forcing him to sit here. In his peripheral line of vision, he could see his favourite balcony, a safe haven for him, but quickly dismissed the idea. The chain might've looked weak and breakable beneath his fingers, but he knew from personal experience that the chains and leashes were stronger than they appeared to be. Even if he could break the chain binding him to his "master"—even the title befouling his mind made him sick—there was no way for him to evade the apt hands that would inevitably come to seize him. 

But perhaps that wasn't such a bad idea...

The blondie mystified him, absolutely baffled him to no end, but he knew that Iason wouldn't be able to resist reeling him in and forcing him to sit on the blondie's lap, effectively holding him captive in those secure arms. Especially since Iason enjoyed berating him even more than the blondie already had, and getting him to sit like an obedient pet on his "masters" lap would wound his already tarnished pride.

Once Iason had promptly merged their bodies together, sealing him in tight, encasing him in the white cloak draped lazily around the blondie's shoulders, he would finally be off the floor—from one cage to another, but at least Iason was slightly more comfortable—but he wouldn't make the mistake of sleeping on the bastards lap like some bitch, he just wanted his legs to regain their feeling, was that really too much to ask?

With that arrogant good-for-nothing bastard—yes, yes it was too much to ask.

The idea was tempting—tantalising, even—and all the muscles below his waist morphed to became one and clenched in synchronisation, persistent and forceful, a deadly combination. He almost gave in, his resolve crumbling rapidly, but his pride quickly marched up to the surface—defiant, as stubborn as a mule—and dashed the thought down with a vengeance. He might've been a mongrel, nothing more than a scruffy mutt to the aristocratic's, but he sure as hell wasn't some docile pet, he hadn't fallen down that far, not yet.

He knew why Iason was punishing him, and that only served to make him angrier, the familiar scorch of fury that swam in his very bloodstream, lighting up his eyes and mind with righteous wrath and passion crammed into one human being flickered to life and lit up beneath his skin. He never felt more alive; maybe that was why he was addicted to the feeling, it sure as hell beat falling into the nothingness that was becoming a full-fledged pet. He had tried to escape Iason's grasp by flying off the balcony yesterday—honestly, what did the blondie expect? He had wings, didn't he? Might've well as used them for something other than looking like a freak of nature.

A freak of nature. He wanted to laugh at the accurate description, but Iason didn't like to hear those words, so he kept them to himself (most of the time), but he couldn't help it when they slipped out, resulting in ashen fingers burying themselves in the sweet spot residing within his wings, adequately shutting him up.

His intense gaze continued to burn into the blondie, eyes picking up every little detail in the familiar passive stone, cold face; he didn't care about the book that was elegantly perched on the blondie's lap—the book was likely to be shit boring anyway—and without anything worthwhile to do, he continued to give Iason his best stink eye.

In the end, he won the silent competition of who could ignore who for the longest, though whether or not that was a good thing was still up for debate. One of Iason's pale, flawless hands moved from the book he was scanning with sharp blue eyes to take a hold of his chin, almost placidly, but there was strength behind the gesture, a silent warning, a real and ever-present threat.

Those all too familiar probing blue orbs locked with his dark ones, trapping him in a mesmerising gaze from which he could not escape from; a moth to an open flame, sure to ignite him in a burning inferno at any moment. His body felt hot, too hot, so hot that it felt like he was going to pass out, die a thousand deaths, and then throw up. Hopefully not in that exact order.

Iason's grip tightened on his chin, rendering him immobile, unable to look away. He watched as those pale lips opened, deep words seeping out and flowing straight into his ears, forcing him to hang onto each and every word.

"You've been ogling me for the past," The blondie idly checked the nearest clock to empathise his point to the mongrel, "Half an hour. Do they even have manners in the slums? Or are they all as stubborn and vexing as you?"

Murky brown eyes—often mistaken as coal-black—stared back in exasperation, he was too pent-up with annoyance and anger to be afraid of the blondie. "Well maybe I wouldn't have to look at your ugly muzzle if I wasn't sat on the floor like some domesticated lap dog!" Iason was far from ugly or unpleasant to ogle—the opposite, actually—but that fact would stay between him and only him, flirting with the person he so despised was not his style.

He expected the blondie to lash out, to fuck him roughly, to hurt him, to berate him even more—he did not, however, expect Iason's features to crease up with wry amusement. His chin was promptly set free while the blondie chuckled inwardly. This was weird, even for his standards. His mouth pressed into a firm line, conveying his uneasiness in one subtle movement, as the blondie continued to give a half-surpressed laugh. He opened his mouth to say something (something along the lines of 'stop laughing you bastard') but his uneasiness instantaneously converted into dread when Iason's hand—in the blink of an eye—shot out and gripped his exposed throat, silencing him with one firm squeeze, cutting off his airway for a second.

The fingers around his throat relaxed, still lingering, but not choking him to death, and with bitter contempt he realised the hand holding his throat also held the chain binding his very freedom to the man before him. The reminder felt like a slap to the face, he was still bound to Iason, still suffering the same fate as a pet day in and day out... and still sat on the damn floor!

The hand around his throat silenced him, but he didn't cower with fear, not yet at least. The blondie's anger was not to be trifled with—if you were unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of the scorching furnace that was Iason's pure, undiluted anger, then not even God could save you—but he wouldn't be tamed so easily, he wouldn't allow Iason to control him without much effort; he was going down kicking and screaming. An unwelcome thought came unbidden into his mind—the pet ring, the soft spot in his wings, and the strongly mixed feelings he felt had something to say about that. He cursed the thought with every fiber of his being.

He squeezed him eyes tight, hard enough to hurt, when Iason's free hand reached out to stroke his cheek. He _hated_ it when Iason used gentle touches, the rough treatment wasn't great, but at least it gave him a plausible excuse to fight back. He remained immobile as Iason continued to run those flawless knuckles down his cheek—he did _not_ lean into the touch, he would _never_ lean into the blondie's menacing fingers on purpose, he just fell forward slightly which just so happened to be on the same side as the cold fingers caressing him.

He refused to accept anything else.

He felt the blondie's lips graze his earlobe; his eyes still refused to open, closed off from the rest of the world. "What bothers you the most, Riki? The fact that your body cannot refuse my touch, or that deep down inside..." Deft fingers trailed down his cheek, his throat, his chest, all the way to his stomach, still heading south. "You know that you are my pet?" The fingers reached their destination, grasping him tightly, unforgivingly, as heated breath fanned the side of his face. His teeth pressed into his bottom lip, grounding him, as his wings trembled at the unwelcome touch. It was unwanted, but not unpleasant. 

He didn't reply, didn't utter a sound, because he knew that if he did remove his teeth, he would start making embarrassing noises as the hand down south continued to play with him—he refused to give Iason the satisfaction.

He managed to persuade his eyes to open, and taking in a shaky, uneven breath, he pulled away from the blondie's touch completely. The chain quickly became taut when he dared to move too far away, but he managed to escape both of the hands touching him. He looked back over at Iason, who appeared both disappointed and ireful, before deciding to scoot back over to the blondie's side just in case the chain was forcefully yanked back and he was at the mercy of Iason's lustful wrath. At least this way he was (mostly) in control of what happened next. He wasn't going to appease Iason (a big fuck no to that), but he was going to give Iason an excuse not to fuck him until he couldn't walk for a week.

"...My ass hurts" He murmured, hoping to sound convincing enough to garner a shred of mercy from the blondie. Technically, it wasn't a lie—everything from the waist down was aching from sitting on the floor for so long (his dick was also aching, but for, regrettably, a completely different reason) so he was pretty confident he could trick the blondie and get off the hook... just this once.

He didn't know what divine providence was on his side, but his acting seemed to work. Iason narrowed those blue orbs in speculation—and for a terrifying, daunting moment, he thought that the divine providence had fucked him over—but Iason didn't push it, opting to weave those apt fingers into his mess of black hair. He leaned against the blondie's chair heavily, still bitter to be on the ground, but grateful that he wasn't being bent over the chair. They were both silent, surrounded by a placid atmosphere. He didn't know how long the tranquility would last, but he focused on the sensation of fingers raking through his hair, rather than the inevitable fuck that was soon to take place.

Perhaps he was a fool. A fool who had strongly mixed feelings about the man currently weaving his fingers into his hair. Iason had hurt him... he had hurt him so much, he couldn't forget about what he had done to him, about what he will do to him. But just this once, just for this peaceful moment, he leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, allowing Iason to continue playing with his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> My favourite word at the moment is taut.
> 
> I don't know why.
> 
> Taut.
> 
> ( ✧≖ ͜ʖ≖)


End file.
